by M.R. Mandell

Forty years later and I still
dream of them, gliding floors
of Xanadu. Chalky white boots,
laces, bedazzled with stars,
tied in a double bow. Four sleek
wheels painted hot pink,
purple pom poms bouncing
on top. I rabbit eared the page
in Roller Girl magazine, slyly
slipped it under Mom’s biography
of Lady Di. Every night I’d peek
into their room, hoping I’d catch her,
receiver tucked between her shoulder
and right ear, giving my size five
to the operator somewhere in Vermont
or Delaware, requesting gift wrap sprinkled
with shimmery polka dots or rainbow
unicorns. FedEx delivery so they’d arrive
in time for my thirteenth birthday.

So much happened to jinx my plan.
Another August thunderstorm barreled
through Galveston, blew down
our little town, Sugar Land. Dad lost
his latest contract job, boss tired of tardiness
and tales of family illnesses and death.
Spent his days waiting for unemployment checks.
Mom tried to hold on. Stood in line
every Monday for our square of Velveeta
cheese, box of powdered milk, and tin of Spam.
She pawned her diamond wedding ring, promised
herself she’d earn enough to buy it back someday.
Spooned mashed potatoes onto trays for thieves
and drug dealers at the prison a few miles away.
Stretched a net over her curls, wrapped a grey smock
over her dress, buckled white pleather shoes
with rubber soles, so she wouldn’t slip
as she skimmed across floors covered in slop,
unaware of the wheels spinning in my head.


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M.R. Mandell (she/her) is a poet based in Los Angeles. You can find her words in Door Is A Jar, The McNeese Review, HAD, and others. She is the author of two chapbooks, Don’t Worry About Me (Bottlecap Press) and The Last Girl, forthcoming September 2025 (Finishing Line Press). She is a 2024 Pushcart nominee.